


The Wind Howls Because It Can

by Cousin Shelley (CousinShelley)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual Underage Sex, Elemental Magic, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Panic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 18:42:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1163167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CousinShelley/pseuds/Cousin%20Shelley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is granted a gift he might not be able to control without Derek's help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wind Howls Because It Can

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for [stop_drop_howl](http://stop-drop-howl.livejournal.com/) at LiveJournal, where the challenge is to write some Teen Wolf sexytimes based on the prompt you're given in 24 hours. This has only been very lightly proofread at posting because, omg, 24 hours, what am I doing. (I'll go back over it as soon as possible.)
> 
> This is set post-season 2 in a slightly alternate canon where Erica and Boyd came back after getting out of Gerard's basement. They're only briefly mentioned in this story, but they're alive. Because I love them, and they came back, _because_.

Stiles tromped through the Preserve, planting some things for the pack to sniff out later. Isaac needed all the nose practice he could get, and Erica could still be fooled by a thorough application of Febreeze. Scott even got sidetracked by scents that were too familiar sometimes, so one of the Sheriff’s dirty uniform shirts hung in the branches of a tree as a decoy.

The washcloth he’d used on his face that morning had a little blood on it, damn shaving in a hurry, so it should be the easiest thing for the betas to find. He dug a hole to bury it in and tamped down the dirt as tightly as he could.

“Please don’t hurt me. _Please_ . . . just leave me alone!” A woman’s voice carried to him through the trees, sounding frail and terrified. Stiles sent a text to the pack as he hurried toward it, letting them know there was trouble and exactly where, just in case it was more than he could handle. And who was he kidding--almost any situation would be more than he could handle. His bat was back in the Jeep.

“Whoa,” he blurted when he saw the partly-turned werewolf towering over a frightened woman. She knelt on the ground, curled in on herself, hands shielding her head and face. The wolf’s head snapped in Stiles’ direction, and its growl deepened. _Great_.

Stiles did the only thing he could think of. “This is Hale territory. So you should--”

The wolf slammed into Stiles, knocking the wind out of him. It raised up and swiped at Stiles with a clawed hand that Stiles managed to shift away from just enough to mostly save his chest, but not his clothes. He hoped his text had sounded urgent enough, because it seemed that one of his friends showing up now was the only chance he had of not getting his throat ripped out.

The wolf jammed its nose against Stiles' chest, sniffed and reared back. Under other circumstances, Stiles would have been offended at the implication. Not only had he showered thoroughly, he’d used a bit of body spray.

“You’re _with_ them,” the wolf growled. It hopped off Stiles, gave him an angry, blue glare, then ran off through the woods.

With a sigh of relief, Stiles guessed he smelled like the Hales. He’d gone to the loft before coming out here so he could discuss the training exercise with Derek, scented items for the hunt waiting in sealed baggies in the Jeep.

“How did you get blood on your washcloth?” Peter had asked, when Stiles had explained the items he intended to plant.

“Cut myself shaving. No biggee.”

“Shaving what, your arms?” Peter smiled as if he’d said the funniest thing in the world.

“My face, asshole.” He'd been half-tempted to grab Peter’s hand and rub it over his chin so he could feel the slight stubble there. After he’d cut himself, he’d done a rush job and could feel a few prickly hairs with his fingers. But that would mean Peter’s hand touching his face, and no thank you.

“Little boys don’t have facial hair.” Peter had really been trying to needle him. Damn, why did it always work?

Stiles nodded. “Or chest hair. But I have that, too.” He spread his fingers and held his hands up, shaking them side to side. “Wow.”

“No way.” Peter stared at Stiles for a moment, then said, “Prove it.” He'd looked smug, leaning forward in anticipation.

Until Derek had intervened by growling and shouting, “Enough!” He’d been standing at the windows with crossed arms during the whole exchange. “Stiles _isn’t_ a little boy.”

“Thank you!”

He’d turned to Stiles. “And you probably don’t have to shave _every_ day, so both of you--shut up.”

Stiles had been there for about an hour after that, snarking with Peter, getting scolded by Derek, and then being told by a frowning and reluctant Derek that his ideas for training were good ones. He’d been almost sorry he’d gone at all by the time he’d left, because Peter had been in a teasing-you-but-not-really mood. Now that the scent of the Hales had run off the rogue wolf, he could go back and hug the bastard. He took a deep breath, determined nothing was broken or mortally wounded, and thanked the few lucky stars that still hovered over Beacon Hills.

Stiles got to his feet as quickly as he could and knelt next to the woman, who no longer cowered but sat upright on her knees. “Hey, are you okay? Did he bite you?”

The woman smiled and took Stiles’ hand to stand, assuring Stiles she was fine and showing concern for him. The torn shirt and blood probably looked alarming. It would have freaked Stiles out a couple of years ago. Now, he always had a spare change of clothes in the Jeep, a stocked first-aid kit, and the expectation of bodily harm from a supernatural creature on any given Tuesday.

Stiles looked down at his shirt. It had been ripped completely open, blood drying around shallow lines in his skin. “I’m okay, just a scratch.” He lifted the torn cotton with a sigh. Damn werewolves. He’d loved that shirt. It had read _You have beautiful eyes. Can I touch them?_

“You saved me," the woman said.

“No, he ran off on his own. Luckily, he didn’t like the way I smelled.”

Tinkling laughter came from the woman. She appeared young and beautiful one moment, then old and stooped the next, like a hologram that kept tilting and flashing from one image to another. “You saved me,” she repeated, the wind swirling around them a little faster, as if they were in the center of a funnel. The leaves twirled in a circle, rising higher and higher off the ground. She was no ordinary woman. _What a surprise_.

“I didn’t do anything. And it looks like . . . you didn’t really need me to show up, did you?”

She beamed at him, and it felt like sunshine on his face. “No, I could have dispatched him quite easily. But I didn’t have to. You came to help when you could have walked away, and risked your life to save a stranger. I want to give you a small token in thanks. It’ll be temporary,” she said, “more like a loan than a gift, I suppose, but it’s the best, and least, I can do.” Her hand reached toward Stiles.

“Wait!” He held his hands up, but her palm flattened against his chest before he could pull away.

The old/young woman laughed. “Oh _my_. And won’t you be able to put it to use! I thought you might get some amusement out of creating a whirlpool in a glass of water or lighting people’s cigarettes with your thumb. A few party tricks to impress your friends. But you’ve got a spark in you, boy. You'll be able to fully appreciate it.” She stepped close enough that Stiles could feel her breath on his face. “You’ll harbor this gift for a long time, and be able to use it when you need it most.”

Stiles vibrated with the power emanating from the woman, her words sinking in. Whirlpool in a water glass, party tricks he’d be able to do, the wind starting to howl around them, the heat coming off her . . . _elemental forces_. Earth, water, wind . . . . He gasped as he felt power press against his chest, her gift already making its way into him. He thought he knew what she was giving him.

“Not fire!” he shouted.

“No? Don’t want the power to set things aflame with your mind? I’d have thought that would impress _all_ the girls,” she whispered into his ear, or in his mind. Stiles didn’t know which.

“I don’t want fire,” he pleaded, shouting to be heard above the roar of the wind around them.

“As you wish.”

The roar grew deafening, and then Stiles could hear nothing.

**

Derek barreled through the woods toward Stiles’ scent and the sound of his voice. _Not fire . . . I don’t want fire_ , he heard, and between the shouts a sound like bells. His stomach twisted and his skin prickled with the hairs wanting to break through. He burst into a clearing, claws and teeth at the ready, in time to see Stiles swaying on his feet. A woman stood in front of him, one hand on his chest. She smiled at Derek and blinked out with a light _shwooop._

Derek caught Stiles before he hit the ground. He growled at the blood on Stiles’ chest and belly, but quickly determined the wound was only light scratches. His growl deepened when he realized the scratches were distinctly spaced--claws--and the light scent he could pick up over Stiles’ blood was that of a wolf, one he didn’t know. The woman he’d watched disappear hadn’t done this.

“Stiles. _Stiles_!” He shook Stiles gently and lightly smacked his cheek. His heartbeat and breathing were normal, but who knew what could have caused him to lose consciousness.

Derek could hear Scott running toward them, Isaac with him. And Peter, he’d responded to Stiles’ text, too. Whether to help or satisfy his curiosity, nobody would know. Boyd and Erica probably hadn’t read the message yet, or they’d be here, too. They had a newfound respect and loyalty to Stiles ever since they’d been held together in the Argents’ basement.

“There’s a wolf,” Stiles mumbled before he opened his eyes.

“I know. He scratched you.” And bruised him, most likely, though that didn’t show yet. Derek’s fangs ached at the thought of a strange wolf touching Stiles, period, let alone hurting him.

“He smelled me and ran away.” Stiles peeled his eyes open but didn’t move yet. “Did not enjoy Eau de Stiles.”

“That’s good. Means he doesn’t want trouble with the pack. We’ll make sure he moves on.” _And is sorry for this, most of all._

Stiles sat up with Derek’s hands on his back and arm for support. “The woman  . . . she was . . . .”

“She disappeared when I showed up. What did she do to you, Stiles?”

Stiles touched his own chest where she had and smiled. He held a hand out, squinting and tilting his head back and forth. After a few moments, the tip of his tongue appeared. He chewed it in concentration.

“ _What_ are you doing?”

“Trying to make a swirly in the leaves.”

Derek grabbed Stiles chin and turned Stiles to face him so he could look more closely. “Did you get hit in the head?”

“ _No_ , Derek. I think she was an elemental of some kind.” Stiles wiggled his fingers and shoved his tongue out the other corner of his mouth. “She said she wanted to give me a gift, but . . . I can’t seem to do anything.”

“You were just unconscious. Maybe try playing with leaves after you’ve recovered a little?” Derek held a hand out for Stiles to grab, because Stiles, who had just been unconscious he felt like pointing out again, was moving to stand. "Easy."

“Yeah.”

“Stiles!” Scott burst into the clearing, as ready for battle as Derek had been, followed by Isaac and Peter. Stiles explained things for all of them at once, still occasionally tossing his hand out trying to move the leaves, Derek guessed. Derek needed them to get back to the Jeep so Stiles could put clean clothes on instead of wearing his torn open, bloody shirt. Those scratches needed disinfecting, but Stiles also just _needed to wear a shirt._

He couldn’t help but notice that Stiles did have chest hair, just as he’d claimed earlier at the loft. A small patch right in the middle. Not too much, but enough to make him look more manly than boyish. That hair wasn’t what kept catching his notice, though. His gaze was constantly drawn down to the surprisingly thick and dark line of hair that started just below Stiles’ navel and disappeared into his pants. Derek knew how it would look, spreading from a thick line, growing wider as it went down, until--

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up,” he forced out. He couldn’t keep thinking like that. True, he’d had such thoughts for a long time, and probably would for even longer, but he _shouldn’t._ Scolding himself for it was so commonplace now, it was almost like a comfort. He was doing something good for Stiles by keeping himself in check. That was what mattered.

Before they could start walking, Peter pinched Stiles’ chest hairs and pulled.

“Hey!” Stiles batted at his hand.

“Just making sure those aren’t pencilled on.”

Derek’s hand shot out before he could consider what he was doing. He squeezed Peter’s wrist tightly enough to feel the bones creak. “Leave. Him. Alone.” He growled in warning. Peter had no business touching his--touching _Stiles_.

“Absolutely.” Peter talked with his teeth tightly together, but he still managed to smile a little before Derek let go of him. “See you back at the loft, Nephew.” He made the word sound like a curse in that special way he had. Derek sighed and watched him go, then ignored the stares from Stiles, Scott and Isaac.

“He doesn’t need to be touching any of you,” he said, trying to cover. “Let’s go.”

Scott and Stiles chattered on the way out of the Preserve about how the woman had whipped up a swirling wind around herself and Stiles. Scott went on about how cool it would be if Stiles were really like Storm, minus the eyes that go white when she uses her powers. Derek tried not to smile at that conversation and their resulting argument about the X-Men comics versus the films.

_Not fire_

Stiles’ shout came back to him, making much more sense now that he knew the woman had probably been a creature able to control elemental forces. But he wondered why Stiles had said it. When the conversation lulled because Scott couldn’t think of a third reason why _The Last Stand_ didn’t suck, Derek cleared his throat.

“I heard you say ‘not fire.’”

Stiles shoved his hands into his pockets. “Yeah.” He looked down at his feet for the next several steps. “I thought I’d figured out what she meant to give me, and, you know, it just seemed . . . for the best.” He glanced up at Derek, his cheeks flushed, corner of his mouth turned down a little.

Derek gave him a quick nod, and he instantly regretted that it didn’t convey how touched he was. Stiles’ fast decision against it, on his and Peter’s behalf, his thoughtfulness . . . so much wrapped into just a few quickly shouted words. _I don’t want fire_.

Scott tried to defend the film again, but Derek missed most of what he said. He was too busy thinking about Stiles’ small gesture of refusing the ability to start a fire and what it meant to him. And how he’d think on that for weeks to come and get a warm feeling inside that he couldn’t admit to anyone, barely even himself.

As he watched Stiles lope along after Scott, Derek wondered if Stiles had any idea how often he said or did something offhandedly that touched Derek in ways he didn’t even fully understand.

***

Despite giving it the old college try time and time again, Stiles didn’t think he could work himself up to decent fart, let alone make the wind blow. He’d given himself a few headaches and taken quite a bit of teasing, mostly from Peter and Erica. Peter had dubbed him “The Impotent Storm,” ( _what, Nephew, like the radio show, it’s funny_ ). Stiles could have sworn Isaac laughed at that once until Derek snarled at him. And Erica kept trying to motivate Stiles through teasing, which was nice, but not really helping.

“Come on, Stilinski. I’ll do a rain dance, you make the storm.” She’d start swaying and shimmying, knowing the effect she was having on Stiles, on every male within a mile, until Boyd calmly shut it down by pulling her away and distracting her. Stiles thought Erica just wanted an excuse to dance and get Boyd’s attention.

“Maybe it didn’t take,” he told Derek one day while they sat on a fallen trunk, waiting for the betas to find more things Stiles had planted. “What good would wind power really do me anyway?”

Derek shrugged and watched silently as Stiles tried to move leaves until the rest got back.

A couple of weeks later, Stiles discovered that it had taken. And that the gift was very, very good. Mostly.

Allison warned them that her father was on the lookout for three hunters that could be in the area--hunters that made her grandfather look like a sedated Wal-Mart greeter. So naturally, Stiles ran across them first. On a day he wasn’t even supposed to be in the woods, because Derek had told him specifically not an hour earlier to stay the hell out of the woods.

The hunters knew he was friendly with the local wolf pack, so they slapped him around a little, gearing up for bigger and better things. Before they could do too much damage, Stiles heard the familiar roar of an extremely pissed Derek. For just a moment, he flashed on indignance. Derek had obviously not trusted him to stay out of the woods, and had been following up, spying on him! Then he was just grateful. _Derek knows me well enough to know that I’d probably do exactly what he told me not to. Aww._

Unfortunately, Derek was alone, and these hunters had mad crazy-zealots-with-weapons skills. By the time the scuffle was over and the three of them had their weapons trained on Derek, Stiles wondered if they were really going to die at the hands of these insane hunters, for no good reason at all.

The feeling that thought gave him, being taken away from his Dad by these bastards, them killing Derek after the shit life he’d had, them going after Scott, picking off the rest . . . . A ball of despair settled in Stiles’ chest, and it made him angry. His chest felt hot with it, his fingertips tingled, his scalp started to sweat. A hunter threw a knife, piercing Derek’s chest and making him howl. Another shot him with a crossbow, the bolt pinning Derek’s shoulder to a tree. They laughed and said something about stringing him up for target practice. Stiles prayed to any force that would listen that the knife and arrowhead weren’t treated with wolfsbane.

Derek’s howl broke something loose inside Stiles, because it sounded exactly how he felt--in pain, scared, furious, sad . . . _primal._ He felt his hair shift in the breeze, his face turning damp with the humidity in the air.

But there had been no wind. And the day, arrid.

Stiles took a deep breath and held his hands out. He focused on the pain and heat and fury balling up inside him, the tingling in his fingers, the way another howl of pain from Derek echoed and vibrated inside his chest like a ricocheted bullet.

“What’s he doin’?” A hunter gestured toward Stiles with his shotgun, drawing the attention of the rest. Stiles knew then, by the looks on their faces and the guns turning to both him and Derek, the hunters were going to kill them now and bolt.

Only . . . no. _Fuck that_.

Stiles breathed out. It felt like he was exhaling from the ball of pain and fear in his chest right through his fingertips, and the ground beneath the hunters’ feet . . . _shifted_. Two fell with the unexpected lurch, and one stumbled, steadying himself against a tree. “What the--”

Derek yanked the bolt out of his shoulder and started toward the hunter left standing, trying to take advantage of the moment. Stiles shouted, “Derek!” and was grateful Derek understood and ran toward him instead.

Stiles exhaled again, dropping the level of the ground beneath the hunters’ feet at least a foot. The tree a hunter still clung to pushed out of the dirt, uprooted by the shifting earth beneath it.

Stiles breathed and breathed and breathed, shaking the ground, whipping the winds, feeling the air above his head and the air hundreds of feet above that. He brought them together, cool air and warm, and felt his bones rattle with the conflict between them. Trees flipped on their sides, tearing holes in the ground and blocking the hunters’ escape paths. Sudden, speeding clouds hid the sun. Wind and a sudden, pounding rain battered them, seemingly blowing in all directions with gale force.

Stiles shuddered with the release of all this power. It was like an orgasm in a way, but it didn’t dissipate quickly. It kept growing--he kept breathing and his control kept tightening. The ball in his chest grew even as he expelled his pain and fear at the hunters. It became regret over lying to his father, devastation at the loss of his mother, despair at causing Scott to be bitten . . . everything since then poured out of his lungs and his fingertips. He used every bruise, scrape, word shouted in anger, moment of jealousy, near-death experience, feeling of abandonment, disappointment--every fear he’d ever felt in his life, and most had been within the last two years. He wallowed in all this and threw it at the hunters with something he wasn’t used to feeling--hatred.

In that moment Stiles felt hate so powerful, he wanted to tear down the world.

“Stiles!” Derek’s voice was faint behind him because the wind grabbed it and tossed it away. He turned to see Derek struggling to stay upright against the wind. Derek was strong. He’d be fine. He faced the hunters again. He _hated_.

“Motherfuckers! _How does it feel_?” he screamed, pushing more of everything that had overwhelmed him for so long at the hunters. One screamed and barely made it out of the path of a falling tree. They all hung on to trees and each other to keep from being swept up in the tide of hate and fear Stiles no longer wanted to hold back. The sky darkened, lightning cracked too close, the wind and the sky sounding like one long, terrifying howl.

“Stiles.” Derek’s voice was close behind him and eerily calm. His hands dropped gently on to Stiles’ shoulders. Another bolt of lightning hit close enough that Stiles felt all the hairs on his body pull one way and then the other. His hearing was reduced to a high-pitched whine for several seconds. When it cleared, he could hear one of the hunters screaming The Lord’s Prayer.

“ _Stiles_.” Derek was loud enough to be heard, but so, so calm. “You have to stop this.” His hands squeezed Stiles’ shoulders.

Stiles spun to find Derek directly behind him, hair pasted to his scalp, water running in a stream off his chin. “ _They_ don’t stop, Derek! They never fucking stop. They _start_ these things. And when they’re gone, they’ll be more. Monsters, hunters, _things_ that want to kill us all.” He blinked rapidly, rain blurring his vision. “It never ends!” His voice came out more like a sob than a shout.

“Stop, Stiles. _You_ end this now.” Derek’s eyebrows raised in the middle, his eyes full of concern. But it was the gentleness of his voice that Stiles couldn’t take. The green eyes that looked at him so damn tenderly now, when _no one he knew_ had more reason to hate than Derek Hale. Stiles nodded and tried to reel back the hate, the hopelessness. He concentrated on slowing the air, stopping the rain. It felt the same. He focused again, and when nothing happened, Stiles could feel the ball in his chest twisting and knotting.

He’d lost control.

“Oh god, I can’t!” He looked around at the splintered trees, the churned earth, and took a few gasping breaths. “Derek, I don’t--I can’t--”

“You have to calm down.” Derek held his shoulders again. “Look at me. Calm down, Stiles. Take deep breaths.”

Stiles tried, nodding, but he choked on the pouring rain he inhaled with the first deep breath, and felt his heartbeat trip over into panic. “I--I--”

Derek shook his head. “You _can_. Calm, Stiles. Slow and easy.”

Stiles struggled to take each breath now, and the sky was growing darker. The ground had become a slow-running stream of muddy water, their shoes sunk into the muck. “Derek,” he said, sounding broken, wheezing to make up for the air the word cost him.

Derek pulled Stiles into his arms, against his chest. “Feel my heartbeat. Breathe with me. We’re going to be fine. You are so strong, Stiles. Strong and . . . good. You don’t want to hurt anyone. Not here. Not today. _Breathe_.”

Stiles could feel Derek’s body heat despite the cold rain that had soaked them. Derek’s heartbeat thudded against Stiles’ chest. He tried to breathe with the push and release of Derek’s chest against his. He let out a strangled sound when Derek said he was good and didn’t want to hurt anyone. But he had wanted to hurt them. More than anything, for a moment, he’d wanted to make them pay. He couldn’t take that back . . . but he didn’t have to stay on that path. If Derek Hale didn't wake up every morning and rage kill someone out of sheer principle, Stiles could be calm.

Stiles’ heartbeat slowed and he could draw a solid breath again. The wind died down, only gusting from time to time. The deluge dried to a light sprinkling. The sky lightened as the darkest clouds simply disappeared.

He’d come so close, _so close_. He let Derek’s arms support him as tears rolled down his face and he trembled at the thought of what he could have done. What he’d wanted so badly to do.

By the time Stiles had a hold of himself, he could tell the hunters had run off. “You should have left me and stopped them,” he told Derek without letting go. His cheek rested on Derek’s shoulder.

“We’ll text Allison, and I’m sure Chris will have something to say to them. Besides, maybe they learned their lesson.” Derek’s voice was soft and held none of the terseness he often spoke with.

“What lesson? Don’t piss off Stiles?”

“That, among other things. You all right?”

“I don’t know. Probably. Feel . . . strange.”

“Come on,” Derek said. “Let’s go back to the loft.” He kept an arm around Stiles, helping him walk back to his Jeep. Stiles felt a little stronger with each step, and wondered why Derek wasn’t just sending Stiles to his own house to shower and change. He was grateful, whatever the reason. They made a sloppy mess of the inside of the Jeep, but Stiles guessed it was due for a good washing anyway. Derek drove, because he said Stiles still looked shaky.

And he was, but it wasn’t a fatigued kind of shaky. It was an electricity running through his veins, making every breath and heartbeat feel like so much _more_. When they got to the loft, Stiles toed off his sopping shoes and stood on one sock at a time to pull his feet free. Gratefully, he looked around and realized that Peter and Isaac weren’t there. His pants were heavy and his T-shirt clung to him. Derek was in a similar state, except he’d worn boots so his feet were less waterlogged.

Derek motioned for him to follow upstairs where his bathroom and a sort of bedroom waited, promising a hot shower and dry clothes. “You can shower first, if you want. Towels are in the cabinet behind the door.”

“You know, I think you saved my life again today.” Stiles didn’t move.

“You saved mine.”

“You came for me, because I got caught. I don’t know if it counts since I saved you from something I caused, Derek.”

Derek's eyes flashed red for just a moment. “You should not have been out there. I specifically told you not to, so yes, you were being a stubborn ass and nearly got us both killed. But I rushed after you when I should have waited for help. You saved me from them, not the other way around, and yes it counts. Why are we even discussing this?” Derek took a deep breath and stared at the floor, turning his back a little as if the conversation was over.

“I saved you from them? That’s not what I’m talking about. You saved me . . . from _me_. How did you do that?”

Derek’s arms were stiff at his sides. “You just needed a little help, that’s all.”

“I’ve never felt so much hate. I just wanted to . . . do some damage. But I guess, I guess you probably . . . .”

“I know how you felt.” Derek finished Stiles’ thought.

“I know." Stiles really did. "I still kind of feel that destructive urge, but like a distant memory. The rest, though, it’s still here. The power of it. The rush.” Stiles swallowed hard and let it wash over him. It was like an electric current flowing under his skin and electricity in the air, bouncing off one another, falling in sync, humming with power. He’d never felt more vibrant. And he’d never been this hard in his life.

“Can you feel that?” he whispered. “Or is it just me?”

“Not just you,” Derek said, his voice tense.

Stiles reached out to touch Derek’s back, but instantly knew that wasn’t good enough. He moved in front of Derek, grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled up. Derek looked surprised, but lifted his arms and let Stiles peel it off. Stiles pressed his hand against Derek’s chest and gasped when his palm touched skin. The heat that touch produced, the spark of _something_ crackling between them, Stiles needed more of it.

He looked into Derek’s eyes, now glowing red around the edge. Those eyes shifted down to Stiles’ lips, and they slammed together as if pushed, or drawn together by an unseen force. They kissed and pulled at each other, desperate in their need to share whatever it was they both felt now. Something Stiles knew he’d felt for a while, now electrified and illuminated so that it was clearer than ever.

Derek clawed at Stiles’ shirt in a frenzy, shredding what didn’t easily tear away, and Stiles couldn’t be bothered to complain. He managed his own button-fly before he lost a good pair of pants, and nearly fell backward when Derek bent and peeled the wet denim down his legs.

Stiles took himself in his hand and moaned while Derek got out of his own sodden jeans, his red eyes never shifting away from Stiles. He was as hard as Stiles and sounded just as desperate when he moaned and lifted Stiles by his buttocks. Stiles wrapped his thighs around Derek’s hips, and grunted when his back came up hard against the wall.

“ _Derek_.” Stiles tightened his legs around Derek and licked his bottom lip. When he felt Derek's cock slide perfectly against his, he bit his lip and shuddered at the intensity of the pleasure he was feeling.

Derek bucked against him, a growl vibrating through their bodies each time he rocked forward and slid against Stiles. Stiles’ fingers tightened in Derek’s hair, and Stiles found his lips again, sucking and nipping at them between panting breaths.

Derek’s hands slammed against the wall on either side of Stiles’ head as he thrust faster and harder, leaving Stiles pinned only by the press of his body. Stiles heard the clicking, scratching sound of the wall crumbling as Derek’s claws raked and dug into it.

“Should have seen yourself,” Derek ground out. “I’ve never seen anything . . . like you. Never wanted anyone . . . .” Derek didn’t finish the thought. Instead, he opened his mouth and pressed it down onto the meat of Stiles’ shoulder, biting and sucking enough to bruise.

The pain only made the moment more erotic. Stiles bumped the back of his head against the wall and sucked in a breath as his body stiffened. He shouted, _screamed_ , as pleasure exploded, spreading from his lower body out to his limbs. Derek shook as he thrust against Stiles, moaning against his shoulder. When Stiles came, his seed smearing between their bodies, Derek trembled and froze for a second before his head fell back and his howl went up, his face morphing into familiar wolf features as he let the sound pour out of him.

Stiles’ body jerked in a second burst of pleasure. He laughed, joy swelling up inside him at the sound of Derek’s howl, so different from his howls of pain and fear when the hunters had been hurting him. This was pleasure, and hope, and, even if just for a few moments, happiness. Stiles felt the need to let that out, just as he had the pain and fear that had gripped him before. He tilted his head back, took a deep breath, and howled.

Their howls ended together, Stiles’ forehead dropping to Derek’s shoulder. He shifted to put his legs down, but Derek gripped him under his thighs and walked them that way to the bed, where he sat, then rolled them over so that he was on top. He nuzzled Stiles’ neck and slid one leg between Stiles'.

“That was a pretty lame howl, huh?” Stiles mumbled, rolling his neck and enjoyed Derek’s lips and tongue.

“No, it was fantastic.”

“Dude, I sounded like a insane, cartoon coyote with a glandular problem.”

Derek laughed against Stiles’ neck, sending off little fireworks of feelings inside Stiles’ chest. _He'd made Derek laugh_.  "See? I really sounded like that."

“Okay, yeah. You did.” He lifted his head to look at Stiles. “But it was the sexiest thing anyone’s ever done with me.”

“Yeah? I turned you on?”

“Yes.”

“I managed to do a hot thing. So therefore, do I qualify as hot? I--"

“ _Yes_ , Stiles.”

Stiles waited a few seconds. “Are you going to say it?”

Derek huffed. “Hot. Very hot.”

“See, that wasn’t so hard.”

Derek went back to Stiles’ neck and moved his hips against Stiles at a leisurely pace. “You’ve still never been with anyone, have you?”

“Not until you. So I hope you’re up for more.”

“I’ll be ready whenever you are.”

While they both waited to recover, they held each other, Stiles getting to touch Derek in all the places he’d longed to since he'd gotten to know Derek. Stiles noticed the window.

“Hey, the sun’s out.” It still sprinkled a little rain and reminded Stiles of a spring day in April, when the weather was prone to doing freaky things like shining and raining at once.

Derek lifted his face to see it. “I guess the world survived your brush with power.”

Stiles raked his fingers through Derek’s dark hair. “Will _we_? Come out of this unscathed? I mean, it’s not like I haven’t wanted you for a long time. I just didn’t think you were willing. And now that this is happening, for whatever reason it is . . . I don’t think I can go back.”

Derek leaned his head into Stiles’ touch. “Good. Because I don’t want to.”

“Can you still feel it, a little? Like electricity. Aftershocks, maybe.”

“A little.”

“What if I can still do things? What if I do it again?”

“What if I’m there? What if I remind you not to? What if we deal with that if the time comes?” Derek shrugged. “You either have the power or you don’t. We’ll handle it, either way. I won’t let you get swallowed up in it.”  

Stiles kissed him, because there he went, saving Stiles again. He brushed his fingertips over the stubble on Derek's cheek. “I’m gonna hold you to that. And I think we should howl to seal the deal.” Stiles sucked in a breath and started to howl again, but dissolved into laughter at Derek’s cringe and mumbled _oh, god_.

***

A few weeks later, Stiles and Derek sat on the ground, waiting for the betas to find the socks, washcloths and T-shirts they’d placed at various sites around the east side of the Preserve. Waiting was more fun and interesting now, because Derek didn’t have to sit there, wishing things were different between him and Stiles. He didn’t have to hide how he felt. It felt strange, though, not holding back and scolding himself for wanting Stiles. Now, he'd started scolding himself for feeling guilty that he'd given in. It hadn't just been lust or the heat of the moment. Those he could have felt guilty about. 

All along, he'd held back with Stiles because he believed that was best for him. What happened with the hunters, how lost Stiles looked when he'd gone out of control . . . Derek had helped bring him back from that. Derek had never been one to buy the trite _everything's gonna be okay_. In his life, most things had been as far from okay as you could get. But when he'd held Stiles close in the middle of the maelstrom Stiles had created, absolutely sure Stiles was going to calm down and overcome whatever had gripped him, for those few, precious moments, Derek had believed it. 

Knowing Stiles, as much as Derek grumbled about it, had only ever been good for Derek. He knew this, objectively. Standing in the middle of Stiles' storm, he realized that maybe, against all odds and any kind of logic Derek understood, he wasn't so bad for Stiles, either. 

"So quiet. Thinking about chasing bunny rabbits or something?" Stiles elbowed him lightly. 

Derek was glad Stiles could still be a smart-ass with him, which might have topped the list of things he never thought he'd be glad about. He sighed. "Thinking about chasing you."  

"If I don't run, would that still be classifiable as an actual chase, or would it be considered more a pounce?" He wiggled his eyebrows at Derek and leaned close.

The moment the betas were out of sight, running after a human scent, Stiles and Derek could kiss and touch each other as they wished. They didn't always--sometimes they just talked or sat in comfortable silence. But they enjoyed the option to do more. Derek always heard the rest coming long before he saw them, so they hadn’t gotten caught with their metaphorical (or literal) pants down yet. He figured Boyd knew--he had the best nose of the bunch. Maybe Scott, but he’d be too scandalized to admit anything for a while. Isaac and Erica might wonder what the strange new scent was, not recognizing the mingled scent even though they knew the separate ones so well, but he hoped no one told them. One more bit of practice they desperately needed. Peter had said nothing, but Derek had a feeling he approved or at least didn't object. Not that it mattered.

When they sat alone, Derek also got to watch Stiles use the power the elemental creature had granted him without everything falling down around them. He didn't do anything in front of the rest, told them he couldn't, and Derek thought that was because he was still unsure of his control. Stiles said it was temporary, but when she’d felt his spark she’d said he could harbor it a long time. He didn’t know if Stiles was capable of causing the chaos he’d rained down on them when they were threatened by the hunters. He didn’t know if _Stiles_ knew.

But he could make a small whirlwind without breaking a sweat. And they always seemed to have cloud cover when the sun was hot.

Stiles kissed him, then looked lost in thought. "Hey, maybe I can do something really cool. Move a mountain or something."

Derek smiled just a little. _You move me all the time_ , he wanted to say. One day, he _would_ say it. One day when he could. "Maybe not mountains," was what he settled on. "Let's stick to leaves and little rainclouds for now." Derek swore he felt a buzz go up his arm when Stiles took his hand.

Scott was the first back with Stiles’ sock, even though they’d put one of his dad’s nearby. Scott beamed at them, proud that he was improving. He plopped down on Stiles’ other side.

“It’d be perfect out here if there were a breeze,” he said. “It’s muggy, huh?” He and Stiles passed a stick back and forth, playing tic-tac-toe in a bare spot of dirt. A light breeze kicked up out of nowhere, and Scott groaned. “Aww, yeah, that's perfect."

Stiles winked at Derek, smiling with a slight flush to his cheeks and a look in his eyes Derek had come to associate with a bright, charged feeling in the air and lack of sleep. Derek smiled back, just a little. Just enough. He knew there were going to be clear skies in Beacon Hills, at least for a while.

**Author's Note:**

> Come follow me on [Tumblr](http://cousinshelley.tumblr.com/) and say hello!


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